Eleven
Helena had called one of her employees, who’d arrived with a coworker—one to tow Helena’s vehicle and the other driving a replacement truck owned by the shop for her to use.
Trevor had called Chief Keller to fill her in on what had been transpiring, but he let his thoughts on Brody Baird and Bruce Rutherford hover close to the vest. No point revealing information that could potentially damage people if it wasn’t true.
Until they had concrete evidence, this theory had to stay between him and Helena alone.
They pulled into Brody Baird’s gravel driveway. A rusty wind chime clanged against the porch railing, its harsh, discordant notes cutting through the humid air, and a prickle of unease crawled up his spine.
Helena cut the engine and pushed open the door, climbing out with a little less grace. Trevor followed, Lark heeling at his feet. Helena didn’t wait for him, her focus locked on the house in front of them, shoulders squared and geared up for a fight.
Trevor reached for her arm as she mounted the steps, his fingers brushing the frayed edge of her sleeve. She paused.
“Helena,” he said, his voice low, steady. “We need to play this right. Make him believe we’re here unsuspecting of him or his involvement. If he gets a single whiff that we’re on to him, and he’s guilty, we could lose major ground. Do you understand?”
She hesitated and for a brief moment, he thought she might actually listen. But she was fired up and desperate. He couldn’t be sure she’d let him do the talking.
“Okay,” she said, and rapped her knuckles against the door, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot.
They waited and Trevor felt that same creeping dread wrap cold fingers around his spine as the seconds stretched on.
Finally, the door creaked open, the hinges complaining as Brody leaned into the frame, his gray eyes narrowing against the slanting sunlight. He wore a faded shirt streaked with grease and sweat, his forearms thick and scarred, a testament to decades of hard work and close calls.
“Well, this is a surprise,” Brody said, his voice gravelly, one eyebrow lifting as he looked between them. “Didn’t expect to see you two out this way.”
Trevor stepped forward, keeping his tone light but firm.
“Hey, Brody. Sorry for dropping by unannounced, but we’ve got a few questions about some old cases.
Figured you’d be the guy to talk to as we’re trying to figure out who is after Helena by setting her house on fire and taking literal shots at her. ”
Brody crossed his arms, his eyes settling on Trevor with guarded curiosity. “Of course. I’m so sorry, Helena.”
“Thank you.”
He cocked his head. “Old cases, huh? What kind of old cases?”
Trevor chose his words carefully. They had no solid evidence, just a gut feeling and a handful of strange coincidences. “We’ve been looking at some of the old fire reports. The ones Bruce worked on. Figured you might have some insight, given how long you’ve been in the business.”
Brody’s eyes flicked to Helena, a flash of something unreadable before he forced a quick, tight-lipped smile. “That so? Well, come on in, then. No sense standing out here in the heat.”
Trevor glanced at Helena, her jaw still set, eyes unblinking, and that cold knot in his stomach squeezed a little tighter as they crossed the threshold into the dimly lit home.
Brody shut the door behind them and led them into the small, cluttered living room, the blinds drawn closed against the sun.
A blackened metal fire poker leaned against the hearth, its surface pitted and scarred, as if it had been pulled from a long-dead blaze.
A few framed photos hung on the wall—one of Bruce, younger, laughing with Brody in front of a fire truck, their arms slung over each other’s shoulders.
“Grab a seat,” Brody said, his tone gruff as he dropped into an old leather armchair, the cracked cushions sighing beneath his weight. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes bright despite the deep creases around them. “How can I help?”
Trevor took a spot on the edge of a sagging couch. Helena remained standing, her arms crossed over her chest, eyes locked on Brody like a hawk sizing up its prey.
“Like I said, we’ve been going through some old files,” Trevor began, keeping his tone steady, trying to read the older man’s face.
“A few of the fires Bruce investigated back in the day—ones that seemed suspicious but never quite crossed the line into arson on paper. Figured you might have some thoughts.”
Brody’s gaze didn’t waver. “Suspicious, huh? That’s a strong word to throw around.”
“It is,” Trevor agreed, leaning forward to match Brody’s posture, careful to keep his tone neutral. “But you know how it is. Sometimes a call gets made, pressure from higher up, maybe things get swept under the rug.”
A muscle jumped in Brody’s cheek. “And you think Bruce was part of that?”
Trevor met his stare, feeling Helena’s unspoken tension like a live wire beside him. “I don’t know. That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
“Your dad would be livid if he knew you suspected him of covering up arsons. Bruce would never. And neither would I. You know that, Helena. When I became an arson investigator, I did the detective work. You’re not here to accuse me of covering up fires, too, are you?”
“Not at all, Brody,” Trevor said, keeping his tone even. “But you have to admit, it looks bad. Even you can see that.” He paused, holding Brody’s gaze, hoping the man would drop the defensive posture and be straight with them.
Brody’s jaw worked for a moment, his eyes cutting to Helena, who was quieter than usual. “I suppose I can,” he conceded, frustration remaining in his tone. “But I’m not going to sit here and let you drag Bruce’s name through the mud. You don’t think your dad was some firebug, do you?”
Helena’s pained expression did a one-two punch on Trevor’s heart. It was clear she wasn’t sure what to believe, and at the moment, she was vulnerable.
She took a deep breath. “My best friend is buried under my house. And I’ve been finding out things about my dad that he never shared with me. So, you can see how I’d at least want to uncover everything about him I can. I’m being discreet.”
“Your dad wasn’t perfect, Helena. Anything he kept under wraps was likely for your own good. He loved you. No matter what, you have to know that much.” Brody’s hard stare bored into Helena and Trevor watched as she shrank.
“I do know that.” She nodded. “Thanks for your time.”
“Wasted time, Helena. This was a waste of your time.” He shook his head and they got up to leave.
Brody closed the door behind them.
“What do you think?” she asked as they climbed back inside the truck.
Trevor let Lark jump in the back seat and then he slid into the passenger side. “I think Brody’s loyalty to your father overlooks a lot or he’s purposely covering up things. I’ll text Chuck and have him look into the arsons that your dad and Brody worked. He can be discreet, too.”
“Thank you. Do you want to go by and see your mom again?”
“I do. I will.” He appreciated she was thinking of him when she was in such grave danger. “She keeps hanging on but she’s miserable. It’s obvious. Is it wrong to pray for mercy and that God will take her?”
He’d been battling with that prayer. Wasn’t the right thing to pray for healing? If he prayed anything else, would that mean he lacked faith that God could heal?
Helena shifted and turned to him. “When my mom had the stroke, it was awful. She had no mobility on her right side, and she slurred her words so badly. I prayed that God would heal her, but if He chose not to, that He would take her swiftly… So, no, I don’t think it’s wrong.
I’m not saying God can’t do a miracle, but we live in such a fallen state.
Death, sadly, is inevitable, and I don’t think praying for mercy or a swift homegoing is wrong or a lack of faith.
Actually, I think it takes as much faith to let them go as it does to ask to keep them here. ”
Trevor mulled over her words. They were strong and peaceful, sending hope into his heart. He didn’t know what his life would look like without his mother in it. He was a little—no, a lot—lost. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”
“You know, I thought my mom was getting better. She started getting back mobility and stronger speech. And then I came home one afternoon, and she was in her bed, gone. The autopsy said she’d had another stroke and without immediate medical attention, she perished.
My grandma was at the house with her. But I guess she wasn’t in the room.
I don’t know. I just remember wishing I had been home with her. ”
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“Neither can you, but you do,” she countered.
“You’re right. I do. Maybe it’s time I stopped blaming myself.” If only he could find a way to forgive himself.
* * *
Back at Helena’s garage, she headed to her office ignoring the evidence that the CSI team had been by to do their job.
Billy and Mark worked with extra caution after what had gone down earlier.
She spied her father’s desk. Since his death, she hadn’t been able to go near it. But now she wanted to—needed to.
Helena leaned against her dad’s old desk, the sharp scent of motor oil and grease seeping into her clothes as she riffled through the mess of papers, rusted tools and old invoices scattered across the scarred wooden surface.
Dust motes hung in the air, catching in the weak sunlight filtering through the grimy garage window, making her eyes water.
“What are you doing?” Trevor asked.
“I haven’t gone through his stuff yet. I feel like now’s the time. What are you doing?”
“I need to go to the precinct and see what Chuck might have found. I was going to ask you to come with me. Safety measures.” He half grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Billy and Mark are here. I’ll be fine. Go ahead. In fact…” She held up her phone. “I’ll share my location with you if it makes you feel better.”
“It does, actually.”